


A Room with a View

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Jimmy Fallon: The Tonight Show, M/M, POV: Benedict, RPF!, Rimming, as true to reality as possible, dancing contest, drinking Old Fashioneds at the Mandarin Oriental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 23:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12376041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: Jimmy Fallon invites Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman onto his show to have a dance-off....





	A Room with a View

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is to be clearly understood as a work of fiction and nothing else. While I've attempted to keep things as factual as possible, this is nonetheless a work of fiction. It is not my personal belief that this relationship is now or has ever happened. This is simply wishful thinking on my part!

**A Room with a View**

 

Karon adjusts Ben’s collar. “All right,” she says, with a touch of maternal fondness. “You’re all set. Do try not to gush too hard about Martin. Stay on topic.” 

“The film.” Ben nods obediently, then adds, “I don’t gush. I just call it like it is.” 

“You gush,” Karon says flatly, and it comes with a finger of admonishment. “You do it all the time. Social media is full of your enthusiastic paragraphs of gushing. It makes you look inferior to him.” 

Ben turns away to give himself a once-over in the mirror. “Maybe I am inferior to him. He’s underrated. People don’t see his subtlety.” 

Karon sighs; they’ve been over this ground before. “I know you want him to like you,” she begins, but Ben cuts her off. 

“It’s not about that.” It comes out too crisply; of course it’s about that. He tries something else. “I just mean that he deserves more of the spotlight and if that’s why he’s got the way he is now, I would understand it. He probably thinks I’m chasing it, too, but I’ve never deliberately kept it off him. I’m just trying to do my bit to share it, shed some light on his talents.” 

A stagehand pokes his head around the corner. “Two minutes, Mr Cumberbatch.” 

“Thank you,” Ben says automatically, and he disappears again. 

Karon sighs. “That, and you want him to like you again.” 

Ben frowns at himself in the mirror. “If he ever did in the first place,” he says, scowling a little. “It was better when he at least saw me as a pesky little brother or something.” He turns away from the mirror. 

Karon puts her hands on his shoulders. “You’re the sexiest man in the world, according to several notable publications and literally hundreds of thousands of people online. You’re an Oscar-nominated, BAFTA-nominated, Emmy-winning actor with an Olivier Award. Own it, would you? You don’t need Martin Freeman’s approval. Now get out there. I’m going to go and have a word with Daniel. Have a good show.” 

Ben nods and says something meaningless. The stagehand appears again and this time Ben follows him. 

“Remember, Jimmy wants to do a bit of the happy dance when you come out,” the stagehand reminds him. 

“Right.” Ben nods. “Happy dance, coming up!” 

The younger man grins and points. “That’s your cue. Have a great show!” 

The music is playing and Ben jogs out onto the set. Jimmy is already out in front of the desk, waiting for him, and Ben dances his way up to join him, making Jimmy laugh. Fallon is always a fun gig, he thinks, basking in the warmth of the stage lights and the audience cheering. He’s also acutely aware of the fact that Martin is probably watching this from backstage. Watching him. He puts a little more into his hips and the cheers grow louder still. Jimmy is shouting with delight and finally they take their seats. 

“Benedict! Always so much fun to happy dance with you!” Jimmy enthuses. “Welcome back to the show!” 

Ben settles himself and crosses his legs at the knee. “Always a pleasure to be here,” he returns. 

They exchange small talk. Jimmy brings up other instances of Ben dancing, including on this very show. Clips are played and the audience laughs. His presence there is not a surprise; he’s the one whose name is on the bill. Jimmy shifts gears. “Uh, that reminds me,” he says, as though the idea just occurred. “Do you know who else is actually quite a sharp dancer?” 

Ben keeps his features utterly deadpan. “No. Who’s that?” 

Jimmy points at him. “Your _Sherlock_ co-star, Martin Freeman.” 

Ben pulls a frown, the bridge of his nose creasing. “Who?” This is revenge, and he can almost see Martin watching a screen backstage, swearing under his breath and shaking his head. The audience is laughing. “Oh, him!” 

“Yeah, you remember him?” Jimmy prods. 

“Sorry, did you say ‘sharp’?” Ben presses, not ceding any ground. “A ‘sharp’ dancer? Is that what you said?” 

“Yeah. I said sharp.” Jimmy is nodding. “You like that word? Sharp? I thought it was a bit Bri’ish.” 

His accent is appalling. Ben decides to say this out loud. “Your accent is appalling.” The audience loves this, too. 

Jimmy grins, undeterred. “You’re steering us off point. My point is that I think that your little hobbit of a co-star could give you a run for your money when it comes to dancing any day.” 

Benedict lets his brows drift toward his hairline. He sits back and crosses his legs the other way. “Those are strong words,” he states, levelling Jimmy with his gaze. 

Jimmy nods again. “They are strong words. And I stand by them. But, uh, you know what?” 

“What?” Ben asks. His nervous system thrills with anticipation. 

“I don’t have to stand by it. I can just – you know, prove it,” Jimmy says casually. 

Ben narrows his eyes. “You’ve got clips, have you?” 

“I do. I have clips.” Jimmy turns outward toward the tech crew. “Can we roll Martin Freeman dancing here on the show?” 

Instantly, the screens are all covered with Martin dancing in various appearances. Ben watches keenly, keeping the frown of concentration on his face. When the last clip ends, he looks at Jimmy and finds him waiting expectantly. “That’s pretty smooth,” he allows. “I’m a big enough man to admit that.” 

Jimmy grins again. “You know what I would love to see? A dance-off between you and your Watson.” 

Benedict crosses his arms. “Would you now.” 

“I would.” Jimmy pans out to his audience. “Who here would like to see that? A dance-off between Holmes and Watson?” 

They roar their approval, and Jimmy shouts over it. “Bring out the hobbit!! Ladies and gentlemen, Martin Freeman!!!” 

The cheers are every bit as loud for Martin as they were for himself, but Ben can only watch Martin as he comes out onto the set, looking fantastic in a perfectly-tailored suit. He moves with style, Ben thinks, admiring him. Martin doesn’t dance, merely walks to centre stage, takes a bow, then comes to seat himself in the first guest chair. Ben is instantly aware that they are both aware that he’s in the first guest seat and Martin is in the second. He’d asked Jimmy if he should shuffle over to the second chair once Martin came out, but Jimmy said no. He hopes this won’t put them on the wrong foot from the get-go. He wishes even more that they’d had a chance to connect backstage first, but Daniel (Martin’s PR man) had told Karon they wouldn’t have time; Martin was coming directly from somewhere else. 

The audience is still cheering. Under the mask of sound, Ben leans over. “Hello,” he says, with a friendly smile, and Martin smiles back, his face relaxed and unguarded. 

“Hi,” he says, proffering a hand. Ben shakes it and pulls him in for a short hug, thumping him on the back. The audiences _aws_. 

Jimmy looks like the cat who got the cream. “A reunion!” he proclaims. “When’s the last time you two saw each other?” 

They look at each other. “Sometime just after we did press for series four of _Sherlock_ , I should think,” Martin says. 

Jimmy raises his brows. “That’s a long time. I’m glad I’ve managed to facilitate this little meet-up, then. Now: you’ve both been on the show before. You know I’m rather a fan of games.” 

“You are,” Ben confirms. “You do like games.” 

“You’re a serious player, one might say,” Martin adds, and everyone laughs. 

Jimmy raises a hand. “Put up that pic of Martin wearing that reindeer helmet. Yeah, that one. That’s a good look for you, Martin.” 

Martin leans his face into his hand and nods, frowning intelligently. “Yeah? Is it? Are we going to be playing helmet ring toss again, or whatever you called that?” 

“ _Antler_ ring toss,” Jimmy corrects him sternly. 

“Right, yes, antler ring toss,” Martin repeats. 

“And no. No, we brought the two of you on here tonight for an entirely different reason. You may have seen, because you were probably watching backstage – ” Jimmy begins, but Martin cuts him off. 

“I wasn’t. I was cleaning my cuticles and had cotton in my ears,” he says, and Ben looks at him and can’t help but laugh. There’s probably far too much affection on his face, but he can’t help it, damn it. 

“Oh, I see. Okay, well, we were talking about dancing,” Jimmy informs Martin. 

“Dan-cing,” Martin repeats, as though the word is foreign to him, and Ben snickers again. Martin’s eyes meet his for a split second, full of hidden mirth, and Ben’s gut glows.

He leans in. “He means _dahncing_ ,” he explains, darkening the vowel into an exaggerated British accent, and Martin’s confusion clears. 

“Oh, _dahncing_ ,” he says. “Why didn’t you just say?” 

Jimmy apologises, then goes on. “Look: here’s how it is: the two of you are great dancers. I think we’ve established that. Look at this, let’s get a side-by-side of Benedict and Martin’s happy dances!” The clips roll, edited into the same frame. “That’s nice,” Jimmy says admiringly. “And great editing by our team here. But we, uh, we want to see that live. The real thing. Both of you at once.” 

Ben lets his mouth fall open in practised surprise. “A dance-off?” 

“A dance-off,” Jimmy confirms. “What do you say, Martin?” 

Martin points first at Jimmy, then at Ben. “If you think I’m not going to commit to winning this, think again.” 

“That’s what I’m counting on.” Jimmy slaps the desk with both hands. “Can we get the happy dance music??” 

The band immediately starts it up. Ben looks at Martin, cocks an eyebrow theatrically, then gets up. Martin follows suit, and they each go into their own version of the happy dance. The music is loud, the audience is cheering, and Ben lets himself go, dancing happily and loving it. Their dances _are_ similar, he thinks, though they both have their own style. Martin’s is a little more structured in general, whereas his is more free-spirited. 

The music winds down, replaced immediately by the cheering of the audience, on their feet and shouting. Jimmy is shouting, too, though Ben can’t hear what he’s saying. He’s gesturing at them, though, so they take a bow and the cheers grow even more deafening. “That was great!” Jimmy shouts. “Take a seat, you two!” 

They find their way back into their seats and Jimmy pours them each a glass of water. Ben passes Martin’s over, smiling at him. Martin glances into his face only for a split second, though. 

“I’m hard pressed to choose a winner there,” Jimmy admits. “You guys are very good happy dancers. Very good. Very talented. However.” 

He stops and lets a dramatic silence settle over the studio. Ben frowns. “However what?” he protests. 

“Yeah, let’s have it,” Martin chips in. 

Jimmy grins. “We also have some documented, um, how should I put this? Geek dancing. Someone on Tumblr dubbed it ‘awkward dad dancing’.” 

“Awkward dad!” Ben repeats. “That’s not nice!” 

Martin is frowning. “What would that look like, then?” he asks, rubbing a hand over his chin. 

Jimmy points. “Roll it!” 

The clip shows them one at a time, then side-by-side, and Ben feels his face heating as he chuckles. He looks over at Martin, who is still frowning. When the clips stop, Martin gestures toward the nearest screen. “What’s wrong with that?” he demands. “That’s perfectly good dancing! On my part, at least.” 

This gets an _Ohhhh!_ of reaction from the audience and Ben looks at Martin in feigned hurt. “What’s wrong with my dancing?” he asks. 

“So much,” Jimmy informs him, before Martin can say anything. “Just – so much. I didn’t want to tell you before, but… yeah. And actually, Martin… yeah. You too.” He appeals to his audience. “I mean, I’m right, right?” 

The laughter says enough. Jimmy grins. “So, all right: now that we’ve seen you two do your happy dances, now we want to see your best dork dances. Can we get some dorky music, please?” 

Something slower and goofy-sounding comes on. Ben gets up and imitates one of his own moves from a clip Jimmy just had played, something not dissimilar to his Assange dance moves. Nearby, Martin is doing the Egyptian with his head and something wholly unrelated with his body, one of his legs raised like a flamingo and the effect is so immediately hilarious that Ben doubles over with laughter. 

Jimmy shouts “Cut!” and the music stops. 

Ben can’t move; tears are leaking out of his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” Martin says, looking down at him. “It wasn’t _that_ funny.” 

“I think the audience would beg to differ,” Jimmy says, and they cheer again. Ben gestures at Martin, ceding the victory, and Martin takes a bow. “Okay, okay, come back,” Jimmy says. “I have one more for you.” 

“I don’t think I can possibly top that,” Martin announces, and Ben loses it again. Martin elbows him. “Come on, keep it together, sweetheart,” he says under his breath, and that doesn’t help. 

“You’ll like this one,” Jimmy assures him. “It seems you’re both rather sultry on the dance floor by times. First, we’ve got this.” A black-and-white image comes up of the two of them dancing very close together, intimately, and Ben frowns. Before he can say anything, already pointing at it, Jimmy interjects. “Oh wait, that’s a photoshop, isn’t it? Benedict, I think that was originally you and Michael Fassbender.” 

“Yeah, that was Fassy,” Ben agrees, nodding. 

“Well, I don’t want to make Martin jealous or anything, so – take that down,” Jimmy calls. “Roll their sexy dances!” 

The audiences _ooo’s_ but it’s all punctuated with laughter as well as various clips of them dancing at other times, in character and out, are played. 

“I don’t think you understand,” Martin says, when the clips fade. “That last dance _was_ my sexy dance.” 

Jimmy almost manages to keep a straight face. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Martin doesn’t break character for a second. 

Jimmy snorts out laughter through his nose. “Okay, well, you’ll just have to do your best to seduce us with that, then. Let’s see both of your smoothest mofo moves, your absolutely, most devastatingly sexy dances. Roll the sexy music!” 

Something akin to a soft-core porn soundtrack comes on. Ben jags his brows at Martin in faux-seduction, then gets up and pulls Martin to his feet. They begin on their own, each doing something rather similar – something rather like the lead-up to a strip show, Ben thinks, running his hands down over his chest in an exaggerated gesture, his brows furrowed, lips jutted outward. He’s not actually sure how it happens, but then instead of dancing _at_ each other, they’re dancing _with_ each other, Martin getting right into his space to the same extent as the photo manip that Jimmy’s team showed. They’re all but touching, Martin nearly straddling his thigh, Ben leaning over him with a hand on his waist, when suddenly the music cuts out. 

Jimmy clears his throat, shuffling some papers on the desk. “Wow,” he says, and the audience laughs, then begins to cheer again. 

Ben can’t look at Martin. Aware of the heat staining his face, he disengages himself from their pose and goes back to his seat, reaching for his glass of water. Martin comes over and busies himself with his own, his back partially turned to Ben. 

“Well, that was interesting,” Jimmy comments. “Do you two need a room or something? A moment?” 

Ben clears his throat. “That won’t be necessary. Just, er, demonstrating our skills. You know.” 

“As one does,” Jimmy reassures him. 

“I’d say I won again,” Martin pipes up, and this breaks the tension as everyone laughs again. 

“I’d say it was a tie,” Ben says, looking at him now. Martin meets his eyes and doesn’t flinch away, a smirk playing about his lips. 

“Definitely a tie,” Jimmy announces. “But Martin won the dork dance – hands down – so I’d say that you owe him a drink after this, Benedict.” 

“Deal,” Ben says, smirking right back at Martin with another flash of his brows, and Martin smiles and doesn’t turn it down. Not then, anyway. He’ll save that for off screen, Ben thinks. He won’t embarrass him. That’s nice, at least. 

Jimmy moves on to a commercial break, then spends the second part asking them both about their upcoming projects, and they’re able to relax a little. By pre-arranged agreement, he does not bring up series four of _Sherlock_ , and that eases things, too. When it’s all finished, the audience is warmly appreciative and Ben makes his escape backstage. 

Karon and Daniel are waiting together. Daniel, Martin’s publicist, immediately pulls Martin aside to debrief and Karon turns to Ben. “Congratulations,” she says, but he can already hear the admonishment in her voice. 

“Don’t start,” he says, trying not to sound cross. 

“I wasn’t going to. Overall, it went very well, even with that – moment. The slip-up.” 

“I thought it was fitting in the moment.” Ben doesn’t back down. 

Karon opens her mouth to speak, but before she can, Martin appears over her shoulder. “Hey, excuse me for a sec,” he says. “Can I just have a word?” 

“Of course,” Karon says, and moves off to talk to Daniel again. 

Ben finds himself suddenly nervous. “What’s up?” he asks. 

Martin’s expression is tricky to read. “About that drink,” he says. “You good for that? We could catch up a little…” 

Ben’s spirits soar. “Oh! Yes, of course,” he says immediately. “Let me just get my stuff!” 

“I’ll grab mine, too, and meet you at the back door in five.” Martin heads off to his dressing room, so Ben ducks into his own to get his jacket and such. He came dressed, so there’s no suit bag to carry.

He finds Karon and tells her she can be done for the night. He specifically does not mention the drink and she doesn’t ask. His heart is beating ridiculously quickly, like he’s about to go on a first date. He knows it’s just Martin, whom he’s done four series of Sherlock with and known for years, but that doesn’t change anything. 

Martin is there waiting for him. “Shall we?” he asks, and they slip out onto a side street and manage to avoid being seen. The show is still going, so the audience isn’t out yet. They fall into step and Martin guides them, clearly already having an idea in mind. “Ever been to the Mandarin Oriental?” he asks casually. .

Ben shakes his head. “Not that I recall, at least. Where is it?” 

“Just around the corner, on Columbus Circle. The bar’s on the thirty-fifth floor and the view is spectacular.” 

Ben bites his tongue and deliberately refrains from saying something about Martin himself being all the view he’ll be looking at. He needs to watch himself, especially if they start drinking. This foray into friendly territory is nice, really nice. He needs to concentrate on rebuilding their friendship and not blowing this chance. He’s glad Martin knows where he’s going; the longer they dither over where to go, the greater the chances would be of someone recognising them. He follows Martin into the hotel tower, where he makes directly for a bank of lifts. He wants to ask if Martin is staying here but thinks it might come out sounding rather forward. “I’ve never been here before,” he comments instead, once the lift doors are closed. 

Martin presses the button for the thirty-fifth floor. “It’s a great hotel,” he says neutrally, which doesn’t give anything away. When the lift stops, he leads the way out. “Come on. Let me show you the view here.” He ushers Ben into a luxurious lounge with a truly breathtaking view of Fifty-Ninth, Central Park, and Columbus Circle, pointing out the occasional landmark. 

Ben glances at him and doesn’t tell him that he actually knows New York rather well, himself. He wonders how and when Martin got so familiar with the city, but doesn’t ask. “It’s beautiful,” he says instead. He looks around. “Where do you want to sit?” 

Martin nods with his chin. “This way. Let’s sit at the bar, rather than out in the open. It’s more private.” 

Something in his tone makes Ben’s skin prickle, but he keeps his mouth shut and follows Martin into the bar proper. There are only a few other people in it and it’s dark and intimate, low jazz swirling out of hidden speakers. “This is perfect,” Ben says appreciatively, pulling out a bar stool and stepping into it. He watches Martin get himself into his own and refrains from making a cheeky height-related comment, though he would have in the old days. 

“Don’t even think about saying it,” Martin warns, putting his forearms on the bar and shooting him a sideways look. 

“I wasn’t going to say it.” Ben smirks anyway. 

“I could feel you thinking it, you know.” 

Ben wants to ask what else Martin can feel him thinking, but filters himself again. “I really wasn’t going to say anything.” 

The bartender comes over and looks at them expectantly. Martin orders an Old Fashioned, so Ben asks for the same. “Do you think he knows who we are?” Martin asks, under his breath. 

Ben watches the man’s back and shakes his head. “Either he’s been too well-trained to just ignore celebrities or we aren’t as famous as we think we are. I think we’re fine.” 

“Good,” Martin says, a bit abruptly. “I just wanted to talk in peace.” 

Ben smiles at this. “I’m glad you wanted to come out,” he says, meaning it. “It’s been a long time.” 

Martin nods, his face a bit troubled. “Yeah. It has. A lot’s happened.” 

Ben’s not sure what he means. “Since… when?” he asks. He’s turned toward Martin a little, one arm resting along the bar, the other on his left leg. Martin is facing the bar straight on. 

“Since _Sherlock_ started,” Martin says flatly. “So much has changed.” 

“And not all of it good, is that what you’re saying?” Ben sighs. “I know. I wish I knew why, though.” 

Martin turns his head and looks at him for a long moment. “You don’t know?” 

Ben meets his gaze evenly. So Martin isn’t going to deny it, then, that things have soured between them. “I’ve got ideas, theories, but nothing concrete. All I know is that we used to be so close. What happened?” 

Their drinks are delivered and the bartender makes himself busy at the other end of the bar. Martin takes a long sip. “You got married,” he starts, but Ben cuts this off. 

“No. That’s not it, and that’s not fair. Things had already changed a lot before that and you know it.” He shakes his head. “Was it the Oscar thing? Was it the Emmys?”

Martin blinks at him. “Are you suggesting that I got jealous of you?” 

“Not exactly,” Ben says. “But I thought maybe you thought I was chasing the spotlight. That you lost respect for me because of it.” 

Martin has the grace to look effaced and looks down into his drink. “Maybe a little,” he admits. “And I won’t deny that maybe I was a little jealous. Yeah. I wish I were a bigger person, but there it is.” 

“But _Sherlock_ was always how we bonded, where we got along the best,” Ben persists. “What happened there?” 

Martin gives him a dark look. “You know as well as I do: Amanda came on board. That changed everything. We lost our dynamic.” 

Ben’s relieved to hear Martin be the first to say it. He looks away and picks up his own drink to take a sip at last. “I didn’t want to say it.” 

“Well, it’s true.” Martin sighs. “It was a mistake.”

“It ended your relationship,” Ben observes, and Martin doesn’t deny this. 

“That, and other things. My time away, especially for the _Hobbit_ franchise. But it was never going to survive the fact that my career got a lot more successful than Amanda’s did. It would be hard for any relationship to survive that.” He glances at Ben. “So yeah: there was an element of that between you and I, too. I’m sorry.” 

“And then series four,” Ben says, stirring the ice in his glass and sipping again. 

“That’s the other part. It just didn’t go the way it should have. Even with the way it all ended. They weren’t them, in the end, so maybe we just couldn’t enjoy it the way we used to. Plus I was being a bit of a prick because it was awkward as arse doing all that with Amanda, and knowing that they wrote it that way largely because of her and all that.” Martin lets the sentence trail off. 

“Do you really think they did, though?” Ben asks, frowning. “That all that Mary stuff was just there to ease the blow of writing her out?” 

Martin nods. “Oh yeah. No doubt at all. She and Sue are tight, you know. So my screen time got cut, suddenly Amanda was playing your BFF and I was sidelined. And lost all integrity as a character. I was pissed as fuck.” 

“You acted the hell out of it, though,” Ben says, and that gets him a gruff smile. 

“Thanks.” Martin drains his glass and holds up his hand for the bartender. “Drink that,” he says, nodding at Ben’s half-full glass. 

Ben hides a smile in his drink as he obediently finishes it. “Are we getting sloshed tonight?” he asks innocently. 

“Oh, yeah.” Martin orders for both of them this time, and his casual authority sends a prickle of something hot deep into Ben’s body, settling in the region of his pelvis. “Cheers,” Martin says, clinking his glass to Ben’s, and they both drink. 

“I’ve never drunk Old Fashioneds before,” Ben comments, examining the amber liquid in his glass as he holds it up to the light. “It’s good.” 

“It seems like an old-timey, New York City kind of a drink,” Martin says. The liquor is relaxing him, it seems. He leans back in his seat now, crossing his legs at the knee. It’s a position Ben couldn’t quite swing with his considerably longer legs; he’d fall off his chair. It looks perfect on Martin, though. Martin cocks an eyebrow at him. “So, married life: you’re enjoying it?” 

Ben nods. “Yeah. It’s great. All of it.” 

“Are you ever actually there to experience any of it?” Martin asks, his tone a little sharp, and setting off all of Ben’s usual guilt on that front. 

“Not as much as I should be,” he allows. “But maybe that’s why I’m able to like it so much when I’m there. It’s precious.”

“Touché,” Martin says. His mouth purses. “I’m not exactly one to talk where that’s concerned, myself.”

“And you?” Ben asks, leaning in just a little. “Are you enjoying the single life?” 

Martin smiles, a long, slow, careful smile with electricity sparking at its edges. “You’d better believe it. And I think that’s fair, frankly. This is the first time in my life I’ve been allowed to act like a typical celebrity in any way. I’m still a homebody. But I’ve been enjoying the perks.” 

“I’ll bet you have,” Ben says, with a little too much emphasis, and Martin narrows his eyes a little. 

“What’s that supposed to mean, then?” he asks, an eyebrow angling sharply. “You calling me a slag?” 

Ben’s smile is probably saying too much. “I’ve heard a rumour or two,” he says diffidently. “As you said, why not enjoy it now that you have it?” 

“Exactly,” Martin says, smirking. 

Ben lets his own eyebrows drift upward. “Shagged anyone I know?” he asks. 

Martin doesn’t give an inch of ground. “Now, how would I know who you know?” he asks lazily, and drains his glass again. “Drink,” he orders, pointing, and Ben grins and downs his own. 

He waits for Martin to order again, then asks, trying his damnedest to keep it sounding casual, “Just women, or… ?”

Martin glares at him. “Oh, as though you haven’t – ” he begins to retort. “I’ve heard things about you and a few blokes, if you want to know!” 

Ben blinks. “I never said I haven’t,” he says, willing his voice to come out evenly, and that seems to take Martin by surprise, his eyebrows flying up. 

“Really,” he says, the edge disappearing from his tone. “So how does _that_ work, then? With your marriage and all that?” 

Two more Old Fashioneds are set down in front of them, the bartender disappearing immediately after. Ben shrugs. “Most of them happened before I was married, if not all of them. Sophie and I are… very modern. There are certain things she would understand.” 

Martin’s gaze is unflinching. “Like what?” he wants to know, but Ben senses or perhaps sees it somehow, that his pulse has gathered speed. 

He leans in, letting his voice drop into a lower register under the guise of privacy. “Well, the notion that most people are at least a little bi,” he says. “As I’ve heard you say.” 

Martin nods. “I stand by those words.”

Ben shrugs elaborately. “There are reasons why you and I have always had such good chemistry,” he says, a bit delicately. 

Martin meets his eyes again. “People have always said that, about our Sherlock and John,” he agrees cautiously. 

Ben lets his eyes drop to half-mast. “I meant out of character, too,” he says. “For instance, on stage tonight…” 

Martin clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m not sure what happened there. I didn’t mean for it to get so – carried away.” 

“And yet it did,” Ben says, almost dreamily. “It’s just – natural, when it comes to us. Or so I’ve always felt.” 

Martin gives him a long, measured look. “The first time I saw you named as ‘Sexiest Man Alive’, I’ll admit that I scoffed a little, given that I know you personally and all. Since then, though… well, I can see it now.” 

Ben lets the smile creep slowly over his face. “Can you? Good.” 

“I can admit I was a little jealous of that, too,” Martin says, the corner of his mouth tugging reluctantly into a smile. “But I do see it.” 

Ben eyes him and takes a long drink of his drink. “That’s a little ironic, considering…” 

Martin meets his gaze and an eyebrow drifts upward, his expression lazy. “Considering what?” he asks, his tone nonetheless very direct. 

Ben leans over. “I came out tonight because I’ve missed us being friends and didn’t want to miss the opportunity to have a bit of quality time with you, try to get things closer to the way they used to be. But as long as we’re admitting things, I can freely admit that I was _hoping_ you were trying to get me liquored up.” 

Martin takes a long, deep breath and looks away, his fingers tightening in their grip around his glass. “Is that so,” he says, and it’s almost bland enough to disguise something else hidden in there. Almost, but not quite. 

Ben lifts a shoulder in half-shrug, half-apology, then turns to face the bar, resting his forearms against the hammered copper. “People have crushes,” he says, by way of explanation. “I sort of thought you always knew about mine.” 

Martin looks at him. “You’re serious,” he says, his eyes dark and sober. “You’re not just taking the piss.”

Ben shakes his head. “No, of course I’m serious. Besides, we’ve always flirted. Both of us. Admit it. Not when Amanda was on set, but the other times. The little terms of endearment. The way you would touch me sometimes. It’s always been there.”

Martin’s gaze doesn’t waver. He seems to be weighing his words. “Maybe so. We never went there, though. But now… let me get this straight. You’re saying that if I took you up on that, right here and now, you’d – ”

Ben sucks in his cheeks, then nods. “Yeah,” he says. It feels like he’s being tested. He holds his ground. 

Martin leans in, very close, and says, the words coming out with admirable control, “You know I would take you apart, right. I’d strip every piece of posh clothing off your posh, well-bred skin and leave you begging shamelessly for mercy.”

Ben nearly swoons off his chair and struggles to keep his composure, swallowing. “I’m hard,” he counters, breathing out the words just above a whisper, for Martin’s ears alone. “Right here in this bar. I’m hard for you.” He reaches for Martin’s hand and guides it between his legs under the cover of the bar, pulling the back of it against the swelling rise in his trousers, and Martin doesn’t pull back.

His expression is entirely unruffled, but he seems to be breathing with difficulty. “You do this often?” he gets out, glancing casually around. “Get drunk with your co-stars and try this on?”

“Not at all,” Ben informs him, though speech is a challenge with Martin’s hand where it is. “I’m not even staying here. You’re the one who suggested this place.” 

Martin turns his hand around so that his palm is on Ben, and squeezes. His tone is remarkably even, his voice _sotto voce_. “As it happens, I _am_ staying here. Forty-second floor. If you’re looking for an invitation to come up, that was it.”

Ben drains his glass and raises his hand for the bartender’s attention. “Drink that,” he says, and it comes out almost as a growl. Martin removes his hand and knocks back the rest of the drink as Ben hands over his credit card. 

“You didn’t have to get the whole thing,” he starts, but Ben cuts him off, scribbling his initials at the bottom of the page. 

“Yes, I did,” he says, his lips nearly touching Martin’s ear. “Now take me to your room and take me apart.” 

Martin swallows audibly and nods once. “Come on.” 

They get themselves out of the bar unnoticed, Ben wanting very much to adjust himself, but the last thing he needs is a headline proclaiming him to be seen touching himself in public. They’re alone in the lift. The instant the doors close, Ben turns toward Martin, wanting – wanting so badly, but Martin’s hands come up and hold him off. 

“Not here,” he mutters. “Cameras.” 

Ben swallows down his frustration. “Right. Yeah.” 

The corner of Martin’s mouth quirks. “Do _try_ to play it at least slightly cool, yeah?” 

That dry humour of his was always a turn-on to Ben and now is no exception. “I thought I didn’t have to anymore, what with being Sexiest Man Alive or whatever that ridiculous title is.” 

Martin glances at him, then lets his gaze travel downward over Ben’s front, lingering before coming back up to his eyes. He looks away. “Yeah, well, whoever does the choosing knows what they’re about,” he says, a bit clipped, and a flush of heat comes into Ben’s face. 

The lift stops and Martin walks calmly out, turning left and making for the end of the corridor. 

“Hudson view,” he remarks casually, taking out a card key and sliding it through the reader. “Come in and see it.” 

Ben gets the door closed behind him, then finds himself pinned to it, Martin’s mouth hot on his own, insistent and hungry, and he doesn’t fight it. He throws himself into the kiss, hands attacking Martin of their own accord, yanking the shirt up out of his trousers even before he’s got the his jacket unbuttoned in the front. Martin is deftly thumbing his shirt buttons out of their holes, then reaches for Ben’s wrist and brings it to his mouth, unbuttoning his sleeve with his teeth. Ben moans, Martin’s eyes on his. “Martin…” he gets out, weakly, but Martin misunderstands. 

“You wanted this,” he says, a note of warning in his tone. 

Ben nods. “Yeah. I do.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now.” Martin’s face is wary, and Ben has the good sense to shake his head. 

“Never,” he vows. “I just – didn’t know how good you were with your mouth.”

Martin smiles now. “I’ve received a few compliments in my time,” he says, with a lightning quick switch of moods. Now he’s smooth and sultry, eyes half-lidded and on Ben’s mouth. 

“I’d believe that,” Ben says, perhaps a little too emphatically. For a second Martin almost glares, then changes his mind and pulls Ben’s mouth down to his own again, and the kiss is wild, almost animalistic. They transfer themselves from the door, staggering into the room. His hands are on Martin’s arse, pulling their bodies flush together, and he can feel Martin’s cock through his trousers, as hard as his own. The knowledge is intoxicating and he grips and kneads Martin’s arse with abandon. Martin releases his mouth and attacks his throat next, and Ben lets his head fall back to surrender to it, breathing vocally through his mouth. 

Martin moves down to his chest, a strong curl of tongue on Ben’s left nipple, which makes him shiver. That earns him a nuzzle of Martin’s teeth on it, the edge of pain spiking into instant pleasure and he moans again. “You like that?” Martin asks, into his skin, and Ben nods, his voice hoarse in its agreement. Martin makes a sound of approval and slips his hand down the front of Ben’s trousers, finding the hard line of his trapped cock and massaging it. It feels so good that Ben can hardly breathe. 

He wants to do the same but Martin is keeping himself out of reach. Is this a power game? (Does it matter?) No, Ben decides silently, exhaling heavily as Martin strokes him. “Take the rest of it off,” he says instead, meaning his clothes. 

Martin lets go of him and steps back. “You take it off,” he orders, so Ben shrugs internally and complies, stripping off his trousers, socks, and underwear neatly and efficiently. Martin’s eyes travel over his body, widening. “Wow,” he says, in undisguised admiration. “Yeah. Okay. Those magazine writers definitely knew what they were about. Christ!” 

Ben grins, but nods at Martin. “Come on. Your turn. I’m naked in everything, but you, I’ve only seen in anything recent in Fargo, I think. And you weren’t even properly shirtless. Let me see you.” 

Martin smiles and sheds his clothes in silence. “Happy?” 

Ben is staring and knows it. “Very,” he says, his eyes on Martin’s chest, then slipping down to take in the rosy flush of his erection, standing proud and full. He finds himself closing the short space without meaning to. “Extremely,” he says, his mouth almost touching Martin’s as his hand finds its way to Martin’s cock. Martin’s breath sucks in and holds as Ben’s hand curls around him and caresses, fingertips prodding further back into the soft hair of his balls. 

Martin retaliates by grasping him in turn, and Ben inhales sharply. “You’ve done this before,” Martin states, beginning to stroke him roughly. 

“That doesn’t matter. Let’s just – stay in the moment.” Ben bends his head as though to kiss Martin, but stops with only millimetres between their mouths. “Admit it: this was always there.” 

Martin’s chin jerks once. “Yeah,” he says, but it comes out half-whispered. “It was. But it couldn’t – _I_ couldn’t – ”

“I know.” Ben cuts him off, his voice understanding. He does understand: before it was too complicated. Amanda was there. And Ben was inadvertently overshadowing Martin. Now, Martin’s career has branched out and become very successful in its own right. He’s even in the Marvel Universe now. They both are. Now this is possible. 

They’re swaying together, kissing, the panoramic view of the Hudson ignored behind them. Martin walks him backwards to the bed and crawls over him onto it, not breaking the kiss. Their bodies fit together more easily this way, with their height difference ironed out on the horizontal surface of the bed, their cocks sliding and pushing together as they both fight for more friction, more connection. Martin sits up, straddling him, holding their cocks together and stroking them. “Look at you,” he exhales, his voice rough. “Just lying there and taking it. Are you always this submissive?” 

Ben manages a shake of his head that’s more like a jerk; it’s difficult to speak with the feeling of Martin’s cock and hand both touching him like this. “Only to you,” he says, truthfully. “Usually I like it the other way. But you – you’re – ”

Martin’s eyes are on his. “I’m what?” He isn’t mocking now, and Ben can feel his pulse pounding visibly in his head. 

Ben swallows. “Let’s just say that I’ve always known that I would let you call the shots if this ever happened,” he says, his voice breathless but even. He means it. 

Martin is staring at him. “Since the very start?” he asks, and Ben nods. 

“Yeah,” he says, and Martin bends and kisses him again, hard, and it’s _good_. Martin is a fantastic kisser, his tongue intoxicating, so much so that Ben could nearly come just from this. It feels better than he even imagined. 

Martin’s hands are pinning him to the bed at the shoulder, but now he shifts lower, his mouth on Ben’s neck and throat, then moving warmly down his chest. “Tell me you’ve got sensitive nipples,” he orders, and happily, Ben can agree breathlessly. 

He exhales hard as Martin’s tongue swirls around his left nipple. “I do, rather,” he barely gets out, and Martin makes a satisfied sound into his chest. 

“Jesus. Look at you,” he says, dropping the cool act completely, his voice full of admiration. “Just look at you. You’re gorgeous. Sign me up for the Sexiest Man bandwagon. Can’t be helped.”

Ben finds himself unexpectedly touched by this. He puts his left hand in Martin’s hair and strokes. “You’re gorgeous, too,” he says, and means it. “I’ve wanted so much, you know. I never stopped.” 

“Good,” Martin says emphatically, moving lower still. 

Ben feels a whisper of hot breath and then his own stops in his chest as Martin’s mouth closes around his cock and begins to suck. His head falls back, his mouth open, and he groans, letting his legs fall open. Martin is phenomenal, his tongue coming out to lick at Ben’s balls, too, massaging them, his hand still moving on Ben’s cock. It feels so good that Ben almost isn’t breathing, trying to keep himself from pumping up into the heat of Martin’s mouth once he starts sucking again. His thighs are trembling and Martin rubs them with both hands. The pleasure is rising steadily, his cock already leaking into Martin’s mouth. He doesn’t want to come yet, but he’s also loath to stop it from happening when it feels this good. 

“You like this?” Martin asks, immediately replacing his mouth and resuming his rhythm almost without breaking it. When Ben moans to the affirmative, he asks, “Want me to keep going?” 

“I – don’t – ” Ben can’t speak. He’s too far gone and his ability to pull back from the brink is severely compromised. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. 

Martin decides to take matters into his own hands. “I think you want to come,” he says. He rubs his nose against the head of Ben’s cock, then starts sucking it again, and this time it’s clear that he means business: his hand is a blur, simultaneously stroking Ben’s cock and slapping it against his tongue. He gives another hard suck and Ben cries out. 

His hips snap upward despite himself and he comes with a jerk of his pelvis and a shock of pleasure shooting out of him, white hot into Martin’s mouth. He hears himself a split second later, shouting, fingers clenched in Martin’s hair and the blankets respectively. 

Martin swallows it all down, waits for Ben to spurt out a little more, and swallows that, too. “Christ, that was hot,” he says, obviously aroused. 

Ben is lying still, panting as the aftershocks run through his frame. “I’ll say!” He can hear the sound of Martin’s hand on his own cock now and wants to protest. “Wait,” he pants. “You should let me do that.” 

Martin crawls up beside him and leans over to pick Ben’s hand up off the sheets. “I’m not protesting that notion for a second,” he says, eyes hooded and very much bedroom-mode. “Come on, then. Touch me. _Ah_! Like that, yeah,” he pants, as Ben gets his fist around him and starts jerking him in earnest. 

He’s still breathing hard, but this is intoxicating, listening to Martin’s breathing ratchet higher and faster and tighter, propped up on one elbow, his breath hitting Ben in the nose and mouth, his mouth open. His legs are moving restlessly, his balls twitching. Ben can’t resist. He bends forward and kisses Martin messily, his tongue strong on Martin’s, sucking hard, and Martin makes a noise into his mouth, his hand wrapping around Ben’s wrist to steady it as he pumps himself into it in time with Ben’s movements.

He breaks the kiss just in time to gasp in a breath and then his body jerks, wet warmth juddering out of him and onto Ben’s stomach. He comes again, head falling back as he thrusts into his own mess in Ben’s hand and comes again, then lets himself slump backwards onto the blankets, panting. “Fuck,” he says with feeling. “Who fucking knew you were so good at that!” 

Ben grins, pleased with himself. “I won’t answer that.” 

“Best not,” Martin huffs, the edge already back in his voice, and it pleases Ben. 

“You have a fantastic cock,” he comments, turning onto his back and folding his arms behind his head. 

Martin snorts. “Right, yeah. Whereas you, I heard, were a grower, not a shower, but no one warned me how _much_ of a grower you were.” 

Ben chuckles. “Pleasant surprise, then?” 

Martin makes a decidedly satisfied sound. “Oh, yeah,” he says. He turns back onto his side and reaches over to touch Ben’s sticky, spent cock. “It’s not half bad even like this, if you want to know.” 

“Such kind words,” Ben says dryly. “Really warm the cockles of the heart.” 

Martin just grins. “How long until you can go again?” 

Ben shrugs modestly. “I don’t know. Twenty, thirty minutes. Why?” 

Martin gives him a sultry, half-lidded smile. “I don’t believe this little opening act constitutes a taking apart, precisely. I have every intention of making you beg.”

Ben lifts his brows, liking this. He never imagined pillow talk with Martin in any of his many fantasies of the past. “How do you plan on achieving that?” he asks. 

Martin raises his own brows, his hand still lazily caressing Ben’s cock, gently enough not to over-sensitise him. “Is that doubt I hear? Are you fucking doubting me right now?” 

“Not in the slightest, sweetheart. Mere curiosity,” Ben says, letting a smile play about his lips. He reaches over to touch Martin’s chest, pressing his thumb into a nipple. “As it happens, I have every confidence in your ability to reduce me to a needy, whimpering mess. And I’m looking forward to it.” 

Martin studies his face for a moment, then leans over and kisses him once, on the mouth but far too briefly before getting up in a swift blur of naked flesh and moving off toward the loo. “Be right back,” he says, running the water. He comes back a moment later with two warm flannels and drops one on Ben’s stomach. 

“Thanks,” Ben says, passing it over his skin, sticky from Martin’s release and his mouth, too. He reaches for Martin’s wrist and pulls him down onto himself. Martin lets him, laughing a little as he straddles Ben’s waist again and tosses away his own flannel. 

“What are you doing?” he wants to know, not resisting, his arms braced on either side of Ben’s shoulders, face ducked down close to his. 

“This,” Ben says, making his voice low and easy. “Let’s make out a little.” He’s half-sitting, half-lying back and pulls Martin’s mouth back to his. Somewhat to his surprise, Martin actually doesn’t resist it or come out with something cynical about it. Instead, he takes over the kiss – gently, subtly – and Ben is in heaven. It feels so good just to be permitted to kiss him this way, open-mouthed and sensual, the stakes lower now that they’ve consented to do this, admitted their mutual attraction over the years and acknowledged that this is happening. Martin feels like pure sex against him, his back and hips undulating against him, both of them already starting to get hard again. He’s got no sense of time at the moment. After several long, really good minutes of this it starts feeling good again, really good, and the kissing accelerates, getting needier, their breath echoing between their mouths. 

Martin lifts off after a bit, his eyes flushed dark, his mouth looking kiss-roughened and red. “Let’s move this blanket,” he decides. “I’d rather feel the sheets, wouldn’t you?” 

Ben couldn’t care less. “Sure. If you like.” They get off the bed and move the blankets aside, and then Martin jerks his chin toward it again. 

“Get on your back again,” he instructs, and Ben complies. 

“What are we doing now?” he asks. 

Martin sits down cross-legged at the end of the bed and picks up Ben’s right foot. He runs his small (perfect) hands over it, caressing its entire length, then starts digging his thumbs into the muscles in Ben’s arches. “This,” Martin announces simply. “Foot massage. Objection?” 

“None whatsoever,” Ben says, meaning it. “That feels great!” 

Martin smiles. “Relax and enjoy it, then,” he says, just a hint of command in his voice, and Ben settles back onto the pillows and thinks ruefully of how he shouldn’t quite like obeying Martin this much. It comes so easily, somehow. Then again, that’s always been their dynamic. 

Either way, the massage feels _good_. When Martin seems satisfied that his right foot is now relaxed enough, he moves to the left one and begins massaging his ankles and toe joints and arches, and Ben is in heaven. “Have you got a foot fetish or something, then?” he asks, his eyes closed as he swims in the simple pleasure of the foot massage. 

Martin shrugs, unembarrassed by the question. “Not really. I’ve just discovered recently that feet are more erogenous than I’d realised.” 

“Are they?” 

Martin nods toward him. “It’s working on you,” he points out, and Ben looks down the length of his torso to see that his erection has indeed filled out again quite nicely. 

“I see,” he says. “Huh. I hadn’t realised.” 

“This isn’t even particularly erotic,” Martin comments. “This, on the other hand…” He bends and wraps his mouth around Ben’s big toe, and the sensation is immediately far more interesting than he’d ever thought it could be. 

“Oh!” The reaction is mostly surprise, tinged with a strong undercurrent of arousal. 

“You see?” Martin asks, lifting his mouth off for a moment. 

“Mmm. Yes. Do it again!” It’s half-plea, half-demand. 

Martin does it again, fellating his toe in an obvious tease. He releases the toe in favour of licking the ball of Ben’s foot, then the ankle, his tongue firm and sensuous all in one. He crawls up between Ben’s legs, his mouth and tongue travelling almost agonisingly slowly over Ben’s finely-haired legs until his nose comes into contact with Ben’s balls. He looks up. “You want me to keep going?” he asks, echoing his earlier question. 

Ben nods, unable to form words, and makes an unintelligible sound to the urgent and very positive. He groans loudly as Martin rubs his nose and lips up and down his length, his mouth open and warm. His cock twitches and stiffens even more. He doesn’t want to protest this in any way, but it seems only fair to mention this. “Hey,” he says with difficulty, his eyes closed. “You already did me once. You should let me return the favour.” 

“Oh, you will,” Martin promises, a hint of mirth to his tone. “First I want to hear you beg.” He closes his mouth over the head of Ben’s cock again and Ben forgets how to breathe, swimming in pleasure. 

He meant to agree or something, but he can’t speak at the moment, his breath suspended in his lungs. If there were a prize for giving head, he would nominate Martin in a heartbeat. Martin’s silver-blond head is bobbing over him, his mouth a haven of wet, sucking heat, and Ben can feel himself leaking. He’s gasping and moaning, fingers clenching unwittingly in Martin’s short hair. The precipice is approaching and he’s just about to gasp out a warning when Martin pulls off, gives him a lick or two, then looks up at Ben. 

His smile is lazy and playful. “Okay. Now you can, if you want,” he says, and although Ben could groan with frustration, he’s much too interested in getting his mouth on Martin at last.

He hears himself make a sound of intense interest, low in his throat, and like lightning he’s got their positions reversed, Martin on his back with Ben above him. He likes Martin’s sound of surprised reaction, likes the other sounds he makes as Ben bites into his neck, sucking a territorial mark there, then moving down Martin’s compact torso with his lips and teeth and tongue. Every mark he makes on Martin’s flesh goes directly to his own, his cock harder than a rod and bumping against the soft hair of Martin’s legs as he shifts downward. While he’s entirely fine with Martin’s promises to reduce him to a whimpering, pleading mess, Ben’s own sense of play hasn’t gone anywhere. His first mouthful of Martin’s cock takes half of it fully into his mouth, his tongue cupping it obscenely, kneading at it from beneath, his throat open and relaxed, lips tight, and Martin actually shouts. It’s mostly profanities, but Ben also hears his name and makes a deep sound of satisfaction at that, which makes Martin’s body jerk and twist beneath him, too. He sucks and sucks and swallows down the first bitter/salty seepings from Martin’s slit, kissing the head of his cock and tugging at his balls, his fingers pressing in behind. 

Martin is panting raggedly. “Stop!” he gets out after a little. 

Ben lifts off, confused. Martin’s erection, released, slaps up against his stomach, almost purple with need. “You don’t want me to finish you off?” 

“Not yet,” Martin gets out. “Come here.” 

Ben crawls up and settles himself onto Martin like a cat, deliberately lining their cocks up against each other’s. “What do you want?” he asks, his eyes half-lidded, his voice as sultry as he can make it. 

Martin stares at him for a second, then seizes his face and kisses him hard, almost angrily, but it’s hot and Ben throws himself into it. Martin’s hands are wild, roving over his back and arse and into his hair, grasping at whatever he touches and squeezing. When he presses his middle finger into the crease of Ben’s arse, Ben divines instantly where this is going and why Martin doesn’t want to come yet. He expected this – if he expected anything, he amends mentally – and has already acquiesced to it. He never would have expected Martin to do this any other way. And it’s fine. Ben silently gives way to it. 

Their height difference is becoming problematic, however: Ben’s back is just a little too long for Martin’s reach. He rolls off Martin and onto his side, his back to Martin. “Here,” he says over his shoulder. “Try it like this.” 

For a second or two, Martin doesn’t react. Then he leans away, reaching for something, and turns onto his side behind Ben. “You were expecting this,” he says, his tone masking whatever he’s actually feeling or thinking. Experimenting, Ben thinks. 

He nods. “If you want it like this, that’s fine with me.” 

Martin makes a sound remarkably like a growl. He shifts closer and presses two fingers into Ben’s arse, slick with lube. “Done this before, then?” 

Ben clears his throat. “Only once,” he says, not specifying. “So – be gentle, would you?” 

Somehow this makes Martin relax. “Of course,” he says, his voice gentler. “Tell me if it’s too much.” 

Ben nods again. “I will.” 

Martin is massaging his hole, stretching him gently. “You’re tight,” he comments. Then, “Jesus, Ben – if I’d known way back when – ”

Ben waits to hear what Martin means, if he’d known what, but Martin doesn’t finish his sentence. “I know,” Ben says into the silence. He closes his eyes as Martin’s fingers breach him, white hot pain and the pleasure of having Martin within him warring together. “I know,” he says again, his voice strained. 

Martin is remarkably gentle. When he’s got three fingers knuckle-deep in Ben, he urges Ben off the bed, not withdrawing his fingers. He guides Ben over to the window and tells him to look at the view, then pulls out his fingers and drops to his knees. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs, and begins to bite and kiss the firm curves of Ben’s arse. 

Ben bends over the wide windowsill, panting as Martin’s kisses move closer and closer to his crease. Then, when Martin spreads him open with his hands and kisses his hole, he cries out in spite of himself. Next it’s Martin’s tongue, pressed up against him, massaging, then slipping inside. He’s never felt anything as good as this and his voice is hoarse from moaning. He grips ineffectually at the windowsill and tries not to shove his arse into Martin’s face, desperate for more. Martin is tongue-fucking him and his cock is fit to burst, it’s so hard. He starts babbling, pleas and desperate nonsense. “Ahh, shit Martin, it feels so good I could – fuck, fuck, oh God, yes, please – Christ, how are you so – ahhhh!” Martin is relentless, not even letting up to respond, until Ben finally gasps out, “Fuck, just do it – I need you inside me – need you _now_ , fuck, _fuck_!!”

Martin is on his feet in seconds, kissing Ben’s neck and rubbing his chest and belly and cock with one hand while the other rolls a condom onto himself. He doesn’t ask if Ben is sure, but opens him with both hands and enters him in one slick, tight slide that sucks the air completely out of Ben’s lungs.

He’s bent over, Martin’s hands on his hips, his head raised with his mouth open and his eyes squeezed shut. He feels like he’s being split apart on Martin’s cock, but it devastatingly good at the same time. He lied earlier about having done this before; the furthest that ever got was fingering. He’d thought it was enough to make the comparison, but this is another level altogether. This is transcendent. Martin is panting and seemingly unable to speak, himself. Ben feels his spasming muscles begin to ease and exhales in a long, shaking breath. “You can – you can move now,” he says, his voice punctured with breath, and Martin does just that. 

He starts slowly, just moving in and out a little, letting Ben’s body adjust to his cock, his hands running up and down Ben’s torso and stroking his flagging erection. This fills out again in seconds under Martin’s ministrations, and by the time Martin is thrusting steadily into him, Ben is hard as rock again, Martin’s hand stroking him in time with his thrusts. “Look at you,” Martin purrs, bending over him and lipping at his ear. “The World’s Sexiest Man, on display for the world to see, with my cock in him! What would Vogue say now?” 

“Who gives a shit!” Ben’s eyes are still closed, concentrating wholly on the pleasure Martin’s cock is procuring within him, in tandem with Martin’s fist flying along his cock. “Go harder!” 

Martin makes a sound as desperate as one of Ben’s own and lets himself go, hammering into him, all restraints dropped. The next few minutes blur together in Ben’s mind as his body becomes nothing but a wash of sensation, of pleasure building and tightening and spiralling upwards until suddenly he can’t hold it back an instant longer. He comes thrashing in Martin’s arms, his cock spurting like a firehose and splattering the window multiple times with thick jets of release, Martin’s hand tightening on him as he comes himself, shouting, his cock flooding Ben’s body with liquid heat, slamming into him and holding there as he empties himself into Ben. 

Ben slumps forward onto the windowsill, Martin still buried inside him to the kidneys, or so it feels, and pants against his folded arms. 

Martin bends over him and puts his arms around him in a gesture of surprising intimacy, breathing hard against the skin of Ben’s back, not pulling out immediately. For a moment he just rests there, both of them panting. “That was incredible,” he says, sounding dazed. 

Ben, incapable of speech just yet, makes a sound of fervent agreement.

Martin carefully detaches himself. He removes the condom but some of it spills, trickling down the insides of Ben’s thighs. “Oh shit,” he says. “Come here.” 

He gets an arm around Ben’s sagging form and half-propels, half-carries him back to the bed. He finds one of the flannels and starts cleaning his release from Ben’s skin. Ben is far too sated to care, his legs loose and unresisting as Martin moves them about in cleaning him off. “Good enough,” he slurs after a little, and takes the flannel from Martin’s hand. “C’mere.” He puts a hand on the back of Martin’s neck and pulls him down to kiss him, and Martin doesn’t resist it. Instead, he reaches back and finds the blankets, pulling them over them both. 

“You don’t need to go,” he whispers, his eyes wide and dark in the dim of the room. 

Ben hums his acquiescence. “I’m going to stay the night. Okay?” 

Martin’s teeth worry at his lower lip, but he nods. “Yeah. Okay. Good.” 

Ben closes his eyes and slides into sleep. 

*** 

When he wakes, sunlight is streaming into the room. He stirs, then stretches and yawns, momentarily disoriented. This isn’t his hotel. 

“Morning,” Martin says, and Ben remembers the previous night in a rush. 

He can feel it when he stretches, the slight burn from last night, from having Martin within him. He turns his head to find Martin awake and watching him, lying on his side. “Hey,” he says sleepily. The morning after. The dreaded conversation. They’re stark sober now. No pretending. No way around what happened between them. He feels a little apprehensive. “You been awake long?” he asks, trying to lighten the tension. 

Martin’s expression is very serious, lines forming around his mouth and eyes and on his forehead. “Just a few minutes,” he says. He looks down at the sheets between them, his fingers plucking at the high thread-count cotton. “I’ve been trying to think of what to say. How to make sense of this.” 

Ben feels himself wake a little more. He turns onto his side to face Martin. “What’s to make sense of?” he asks, searching Martin’s face. “We slept together. We’re attracted to each other, have been for years, and we finally did something about it. Seems simple enough to me.” 

Martin’s face clouds a little. “Don’t make light of this,” he warns, but Ben shakes his head. 

“I’m not. I’m just putting it factually,” he says. “What happened last night – we both wanted it. A lot. More than either of us ever realised before this, I’d say. Would you agree?” 

Martin nods. “Yeah. That’s pretty spot on. But look: I may have slept around a little since Amanda and I split, but I’m not usually – all jokes aside, that’s not really who I am. I think you know that.” 

Ben studies his face, wondering what the problem is. “Sure. Of course,” he says. He reaches out and touches his knuckles to the backs of Martin’s. “I was joking about that.” 

Martin doesn’t pull his fingers away. “The thing is,” he goes on, the words coming out with obvious difficulty, “the people I’ve – they’ve all been strangers, more or less. Pretty faces or bodies, people I just met at that very party or bar. A few that I knew a little better, but no one that I had anything approaching anything real with.” He stops, takes a breath, then looks Ben directly in the eye, his mouth flat. “You’re different.” The words are abrupt, and hit Ben in the chest. 

“Am I?” His own words aren’t quite steady. “How so?” 

Martin shoots him an irritated look. “You _know_ how. All that – between us, over the years. All that stuff that we never acknowledged or talked about. It was still there. There’s a reason – and I know it’s daft, but that doesn’t mean I can control it – that I got so stupidly jealous of you. All the awards, all the sexiest man bullshit. It was annoying because I’d already laid some sort of private claim to you, and here you were off hobnobbing with every asshole in Hollywood. I told myself whatever we had between us on _Sherlock_ was limited to when we were actually doing the show. But now – this has happened and it’s turned everything on its head.” 

He takes another long, unsteady breath, and Ben finds himself almost shocked. “You thought I only wanted this while we were actively making _Sherlock_?” he repeats. “Martin – that’s – ” He stops, backing up. “No. If you think that what we had wasn’t – every bit as special to me as it seems it was to you, then you’re wrong. I’m not the slag you seem to think I’ve been, either. I’ve made some friends, and that’s been great, but none of them have ever held a candle to you. I just thought you stopped giving me the time of day after awhile. That you could barely tolerate me.” 

Martin shakes his head again, but all he says is, “That was just me being an asshole. Leaping to conclusions. And I was wrong. The fact that we’re in bed together right now tells me that clearly enough. You really did want this. You wanted it enough to want to spend the night. You didn’t immediately run away shrieking when it was over.” 

Ben smiles now. “Hardly,” he says. He leans over and puts a hand on Martin’s cheek, then ducks in and kisses him for a long, slow moment. 

When it breaks off, Martin licks his lips and blinks. “See, and there’s that,” he says pointedly. “I would get it if this were just a one-night stand because we happened to be in the same time and place and there was a chance to get a little tipsy together. But when you kiss me like that… I don’t know what to think.” 

Ben puts his arm back under the blankets and trails his hand down to between Martin’s legs, taking hold of his growing erection. “What about when I touch you?” he asks, trying to distract Martin from the serious stuff. “How does that make you feel?” 

Martin closes his eyes and doesn’t stop him. “Good,” he admits. “Really good. Ben…” 

Ben leans in and kisses him again, rolling onto him, and Martin doesn’t resist this, either. His hands are on Ben’s arse, their cocks rubbing together. It’s a little too dry, but then Martin finds the lube and gets a palmful of it onto them both, and after that, it’s easy. They roll over and over in the bed, humping and thrusting and rocking together, finally ending up with Ben on top, Martin bracing himself against the headboard, rutting together until they come almost simultaneously, shouting out as their bodies erupt in hot wetness between them. 

They lie together, half-tangled into each other, panting and coming down jointly. Then Martin announces that he needs to piss and rolls off the bed to pad into the loo. Ben goes after him, then comes back into the room to find Martin starting to get dressed. He follows suit and says, a bit stiffly, “Have we finished talking about it, then?” 

Martin shrugs and pulls on a sock. “You’re the one who didn’t seem to want to, there,” he points out. 

Ben sighs and goes to sit down next to him on the bed. “I guess I don’t really know what to say about it either,” he admits. He puts a hand on Martin’s face, thumb pressing into his cheekbone. “I can’t deny that you mean more to me than just some fling, too, and that you always have. I’m not sure what more there is to say about that.” 

Martin puts his hand on Ben’s and pulls it down, holding it on their laps instead. “That’s it. Exactly what you just said. It’s more than a fling for me, too, and it’s not enough for me to just walk away from it. I can do that with other people. With you – I don’t think I’ll be able to, and that worries me.” 

Ben’s gaze shifts from one of Martin’s eyes to the other. “What are you saying?” he asks plainly. “What do you want?” 

“I want more,” Martin tells him soberly. “That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t want you to walk out of here and have that be the end. But you’re married, and we are who we are.” 

Ben nods. “But you do want more,” he says. The concept thrills him. 

Martin nods. “More than I should,” he says. “I think that’s why I always kept this at arm’s length before. I could flirt, as long as it came with a side of meanness. But to actually let myself kiss you, touch you, even just sleep with you – it’s crossed all of my lines. I can’t play games about it any more.” 

Ben understands. “Yeah,” he says. “I get that. Maybe I can’t, either. Not once the seal of pretending has been broken.” He hesitates, then says, “Look – I don’t know exactly how much more you mean you want when you say you want more, but – Sophie and I are open, you know. We have an open relationship. That’s what I meant when I said she’d understand, about this. She would. She’s known for awhile how I’ve felt about you, and she’s all right with it, provided that we’re sensible about everything. I mean, you know how both our schedules are. It would be rare enough that we’d have the chance to see each other anyway, but if you’re up for it, that’s… yeah. That’s there, on offer.” 

He waits, watching Martin’s face with a touch of anxiety. Will Martin try to scoff and turn this down, back away and say that Ben’s read more into his words than what he meant? He doesn’t, though. Martin blinks and licks his lips, then nods. “Yeah.” The word comes out half in a whisper. “I’d like that. I’d really like that. Intermittent, but serious when it’s there. Yeah?” 

Ben nods. “Exactly,” he says. He smiles. “Is that a yes, then?” 

Martin nods and reaches for him, saying his name in a low voice. They kiss for a long moment and it’s slow and sensual and perfect. 

When it’s over, Ben pulls back and gets to his feet. “In any case, I’d best get going,” he says. “I’m sure we both have full days ahead of us.” 

Martin nods and watches him dress. When Ben is about to open his mouth to leave, Martin cuts him off. “I’m not busy for breakfast,” he says abruptly. “You?” 

Ben studies his face for a moment, then feels a smile creep over his face. “No,” he says. “I’m free as a bird.” 

Martin gets up. “Then let me just finish dressing,” he says briskly. “This time it’s on me.” 

Ben smiles. “No complaints here,” he says, and he means it. He follows Martin out of the room a few minutes later and glances back over his shoulder at the window. Odd, he thinks. He never even had a chance to notice the view. 

Perhaps he’ll just have to come back tonight, then. 

*


End file.
